


Heart and Soul

by wordsbymeganmichael



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Teacher!Killian, music teacher au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22807846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael
Summary: Private music teacher Killian Jones wakes one morning to the sound of his ten year old neighbor playing the bane of his existence: the recorder. In order to keep his sanity, he offers to teach Henry to play any other instrument -- though partially because it means he gets to spend more time with Henry's mother, Emma Swan.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 21
Kudos: 148





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by waking up one morning over the summer to hear my neighbor playing the trumpet -- though, thankfully, Sam is a much better musician than a beginner recorder-player. I complained about it on discord, and bam! this story appeared, a joint effort between myself and Meredith. Even though she was unable to help me finish it because of her busy work schedule, her ideas are riddled through the story, not to mention the incredible art she made for it.

There aren’t many unusual things Killian truly hates.

Sure, he hates things like seeing horrific stories on the news, bigots, and people on the road who don’t utilize their turn signals. But those all seemed fairly normal within the realm of things that are passionately disliked.

The one standout thing he despises, however, is the recorder. 

His animosity toward the instrument — if one can even call it an  _ instrument  _ — feels like a betrayal to his career at times. He spends his weekdays teaching both children and adults to play music, helping them discover hidden talents and find as much comfort and happiness within the notes as he does. The piano and the guitar are his most popular contenders among students. But he’s also had a bit of experience teaching violin and harmonica, along with one memorable incident with the drum set in his basement that resulted in several complaints from the neighbors. 

Recorders? He intentionally keeps a fair distance from those.

If he’s being honest, it’s probably hindered his career a bit over the past few years. Since he moved to Storybrooke and word got out across the small town that he was a music teacher, he’s had countless parents approach him whose children had brought home recorders from school, asking him to give them lessons to improve their playing and put the rest of the family out of their misery. 

Killian has always declined. He’ll offer to help by teaching the child another instrument instead, but recorders are out of the question. It’s simply not worth his time, not when there are so many better options available. 

Needless to say, he’s less than pleased when he’s woken up before seven one morning by the sound of “Hot Cross Buns” being played on the dreaded instrument. 

Something’s not right. He has to be hearing things, isn’t he? The house to the left of his is vacant, and the one to the right is the home of his neighbor and her son, the latter of whom should be resting as much as he can before the beginning of his school year. 

What reason would he have to be playing the recorder this early in the—  _ bloody hell, _ he thinks to himself. Yesterday was the first school day for the year. He should have remembered considering the extensive adjustments he's had to make to his schedule from lessons over the summer. 

Killian doesn't know all that much about Henry Swan and his mother. They'd moved into the house next door last fall and the lad had introduced himself not long after. He knows that Henry is about nine or ten years old, is a student at Storybrooke Elementary School, and is a  _ Star Wars _ fan, judging by the number of printed t-shirts he's seen him wearing when they come across each other arriving to and leaving their respective houses.

He knows just as much, if not even less, about Emma Swan. Only that she works as a sheriff's deputy for her older brother, and favors beanies and leather jackets during the fall and winter months. Killian assumes that she’s single considering she and Henry are the only two occupants of the house, and he’s never seen any visitors there aside from her family.

Which is a relief, because he's also infatuated with her. 

Perhaps that’s a bit of a stretch considering the few interactions they’ve shared. Killian is aware that he doesn’t exactly know her well enough for any type of infatuation to really exist. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s managed to make him feel like an awkward schoolboy who can’t maintain some sense of dignity around a girl. 

Their most recent interaction had taken place the Monday prior; he was getting ready for his morning run when Emma returned from what he assumed was the night shift at the sheriff’s station. She’d given him a brief smile and waved as she unlocked her front door. He was so surprised that he tripped and almost fell over his shoelace that he’d forgotten to tie thanks to the unexpected gesture.

(It was hard to tell whether she noticed. He’s hoping the answer is no.)

All of this to say, he likes the Swans. But he’s not sure just how long he’ll be able to tolerate what  _ has  _ to be Henry and his recorder, especially this early in the bloody morning.

Of all the songs in the world, what would bring him to choose “Hot Cross Buns” anyway?

Killian gets his answer a few weeks later. Every afternoon since the end of the school year save one or two (plus a few choice mornings), he’s been treated to the sound of Henry attempting to play a number of different songs, each one a tad more annoying than the last. There’s been “Yankee Doodle,” “Skip to My Lou,” and, oddly enough, “Jingle Bells.”

Something has to be done before Henry tries to learn “Baby Shark.”

He knows he should act his age and learn to embrace his young neighbor’s new hobby. (Or buy a good pair of earplugs.) After all, Henry’s a child, and Killian is glad he’s chosen to dedicate part of his free time to learning music.

But he really needs to choose a different instrument.

It’s what leads him to knock on the Swan’s front door on a Saturday morning a month into the school year. Emma and Henry are both home judging by the yellow Volkswagen Beetle parked in the driveway and the squeaky recorder notes coming from an open window on the second floor.

Emma answers the door. Her blonde hair is tied into a messy knot on the top of her head, and she’s sipping coffee from a bright red mug and wearing running shorts and a faded t-shirt that he’s willing to bet are her pajamas. 

He’s never felt more attracted to her. But that’s not the reason he came by.

“Oh, hi, Killian,” she greets him, eyebrows shooting to her hairline. Her reaction makes him consider if he should have given some kind of notice before coming over. 

“Good morning, Swan. I’m sorry to bother you this early, but I heard the lad playing and assumed you were both up.”

“Yeah. He’s been at it for a while.” Emma bites her lower lip and glances back and forth from him to the staircase he can just make out behind her. “I’m really sorry if he’s been annoying you with the music recently. I’ve suggested he only play later in the afternoon, especially since I've been trying to have the windows open more often so we don't have to keep running the air conditioning, but he always makes some comment about liking to start his day off with music, and I hate to discourage him when he’s finally found a hobby he’s enjoying.” 

Hearing these words causes Killian to feel guilty for being irritated with Henry’s playing, but it also makes the reason he came by seem even more appropriate. “Think nothing of it. I’m quite happy to hear the lad has taken an interest in music. But if you don’t mind my input, lass, I think he could do well with a more versatile instrument that allows him to explore his capabilities even further.” It’s the nicest way he can think of to discourage her son from ever touching a recorder again.

Emma is quiet for a moment, brow furrowing as she contemplates his suggestion. “I don’t think I understand—  _ oh _ !” A look of realization crosses her face. “That’s right. You’re a musician, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and he’s great!” The face of Henry Swan pops up behind his mother; he’s already almost as tall as she is. “Hi, Mr. Jones,” he says. Killian smiles at him before he turns back to Emma. “Remember, Mom? He played with some other parents at the last school fundraiser. You were there.”

Killian remembers the night in question vividly. He and a handful of other parents who played music had been asked to perform a selection of songs at Storybrooke Elementary’s annual spring event. (Emma had worn a tight red dress and heels. He was playing the piano and had come close to butchering the opening of their first song when he’d noticed her.)

She remembers the event, too, if the blush on her cheeks is anything to go by. “Yeah, kid, I remember. I just...haven’t had enough caffeine yet this morning.” She takes a long sip from the mug she’s holding as if to prove a point. 

“Aye. Well.” Killian pauses, the shift in conversation having made him briefly forget the purpose for his visit. “I was just telling your mother, Henry, that I’m quite glad that you’re interested in playing music. I didn’t know how you felt about possibly trying other instruments as well? Guitar, piano, saxophone, triangle…” he trails off. 

He knows the bare minimum about saxophones and doesn’t think Henry would actually want to play the triangle. But he’ll offer to give him harmonica lessons so long as he never touches a recorder again.

Henry considers his suggestion. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Miss Greene just gave us the recorders to take home so we could practice.” (Killian knows of the Miss Greene he is referring to, and resists the urge to message Tink and suggest she not guide her fourth graders in that direction ever again.) “I guess it would be cool to play something else though.” He smiles up at Killian. “Do you think if I tried to play the piano that I could be as good as you someday?”

Killian’s heart swells with pride at the boy’s admiration. Truth be told, he’s been complimented for his talent on numerous occasions by all kinds of people from different walks of life. But something about hearing his abilities praised from a ten year old with excitement in his eyes means more to him than any recognition has in quite some time. 

“Perhaps,” he tells Henry. “If you utilize as much practice and dedication as you seem to be doing for that recorder, I’m sure you’ll be a seasoned pianist in no time.”

Killian is so thrilled by the smile that spreads across the lad’s face that he almost misses the wince that crosses his mother’s. 

_ Almost.  _

“Henry…” she starts, her eyes turned down to the ground, and Killian’s eyes are drawn to her hands wringing in front of her. 

“What, mom? Mr. Jones wants to teach me how to play the piano,  _ please  _ let me learn how to play the piano!” 

The shadow of a smile crosses over her face, but it doesn’t stay. “It’s not—” she pulls her bottom lip up between her teeth, gently sucking on it for a moment before releasing it and finally raising her eyes to meet Killian’s. “We don’t have a piano, and, well… I don’t think we can afford to get one for him to practice on.” 

Henry’s expression, his shoulders, his excitement, physically fall. “But mom, don’t—” 

Killian doesn’t even let the boy pose his argument, because he already has the solution — hopefully a solution that works for all three of them. “That’s really not a problem, love,” he says, his smile growing when her bright green eyes start to sparkle with the hope he is giving her son. “As it happens, I just bought a new piano for the studio, so I have one that I’m hoping to get rid of. If you want it, it’s yours.” 

It’s not  _ quite  _ the truth: he has his baby grand in his living room, the one that he practices on himself; and he has the two uprights in his studio, one much newer than the other, and as much as he has wanted to replace the older one with an updated model, he hasn’t gotten around to it. Getting rid of one of them wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, and it would certainly clear up some space in the basement, though it would keep some of his students from practicing while he’s in another lesson.

But with the smile that grows across Henry’s face, and Emma’s to match it, the little white lie seems like the worst of his problems. Because,  _ gods above,  _ he has it bad for this woman. 

  
  


Moving the old upright piano from his basement to the Swan’s living room the following Saturday proves much more difficult than lying to them about it. It’s an adventure that requires his brother, Emma’s brother, and Emma — and not, he doesn't fall to notice, the man who he assumes to be Henry’s father, who shows up with the boy right as they’re struggling to get through the front door. 

Killian hates him before he even opens his mouth to speak, seemingly the only one to notice his run-down dark green pick-up truck parked by the curb while he stands in Emma’s entryway, trying to keep the piano from tipping over. The only one to notice  _ him _ , sitting in the driver’s seat and making no motion to get out, even as Henry jumps down from the passenger seat and begins collecting his soccer gear from the back seat. 

“This thing really doesn’t look like it would be this hard to move,” Emma’s brother — David — grunts, trying his hardest to help ease the piano up over Emma’s front step. 

“Oh, come on, Nolan,” they all hear from behind them, everyone else finally noticing. “You having a little trouble with that?” 

“You know, Cassidy,” David calls out, and Killian notices a vein in his forehead popping out as they try to lift it from the bottom and up the single step. “You could always get your ass over here and be helpful.” 

Emma laughs from the other side of the piano. “Yeah, right.” 

The guy in the truck laughs louder, turning his head in a way that makes Killian sure that he’s staring at Emma. His words make him even more sure: “I prefer the view from where I am, actually.” 

“Asshole,” David says, either a bit louder than he meant or  _ exactly  _ as loud as he meant; Killian has a feeling it’s the second. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Henry asks, dropping his soccer stuff on the porch behind Emma.  _ At least the lad has manners,  _ Killian tells himself, finally guiding the piano into the entryway.  _ He gets them from his mother _ . 

“Just stay out of the way, bud,” David tells him between gritted teeth, the three of them pushing the piano the rest of the way through the door. 

“Are you the lucky lad who gets to play this piano?” Liam asks once they’ve all made it into the entryway, Killian tossing one last glare towards Henry’s father pulling away from the curb as he closes the front door. When he turns to Henry, he’s beaming. 

“Yep! Killian offered to teach me so he could stop hearing me practice the recorder every morning!” 

The bluntness of Henry’s statement pulls a laugh from all of them.

Henry takes to the piano like a fish to water, which doesn't surprise Killian in the least. The lad is bright, Killian has learned that just from talking with him during their time as neighbors, but when he is able to play most of his scales  _ and  _ "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" by their second lesson, he knows he has stumbled upon true talent. 

And spending time with his mother certainly doesn't hurt, either. 

(The way her laughter carries through the open windows when Henry plays through a song brightens up his days in ways he didn't think was possible anymore, as well, but that's a secret he plans to keep to himself for a while.) 

But by the end of September, four o'clock on Tuesday comes by slowly, especially since his and Emma's schedules have apparently shifted so they're never coming or going at the same time, but when she answers his knock on her door, he immediately feels a calm wash over him. Sure, he feels his heart in his throat, and when she smiles at him and takes a step back to let him in the house, he can swear that he has never seen a more beautiful sight in his life. 

_ Shit _ , he's in deep. 

"Hello, love," he says, returning her smile as he steps through the doorway. 

"Hey, Killian," she says back, leaning back against the door to push it shut. "I, uh, thought I already said something to you, but Henry's not here right now." 

"Oh." He tries not to let his upset show on his face. This time that he spends with Henry Swan and his mother has become the highlight of his week, but since Henry isn't here, he assumes that means he should go home. 

But neither of them move. 

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, as it does every time he's found himself in this gorgeous woman's presence, and he counts the moments that pass through his heartbeats:  _ one, two, three, four.  _

"Where is the lad, if you don't mind me asking?" 

She shrugs, still physically blocking him from leaving. "He's with his dad." 

"On a Tuesday night?"

She looks down at the floor, holding out her hands out into her line of vision. "We’re going away next weekend with David and Mary Margaret, so it’s to make up for the time he’s missing. But believe me, he would much rather be here with you." 

“I’ve only ever heard him say good things about his father.” 

“Do you really think that he would tell a stranger about the bad things?” she snaps, and he reels back immediately, regretting ever bringing it up in the first place. Biting the tip of his tongue between his teeth, he tries to push memories of doing the same thing from his mind, tries not to think of all the times he wanted to tell someone other than his brother of the way he was being treated — and he, of course, remembers the embarrassment that came whenever someone tried to bring it up. 

Killian thinks back to the only time he’s met Henry’s father, after helping move the piano into their living room, and he begs once again that this man is nothing like Brennan Jones. 

“Of course,” he says finally, his voice soft with regret and the memory of his own father’s drunken escapades, and he swallows the memories down like bile. 

A beat passes between them, long enough to make Killian sure that he should simply excuse himself and go home, but it’s the last thing he wants to do. 

“Do you want to come in for lunch?” she blurts, her eyes quickly flitting away from his when he tries to find them. 

“Pardon?” He’s not thrown off by the question, really, as much as he is the sentiment. 

“I just — I feel bad that I forgot to tell you that Henry’s with Neal, and now you don’t have anything to do for the next hour, and I was already reheating some of Marg's soup and making sandwiches, so I can — you know what, just… forget it, forget that I asked—” 

“I would love to.”

The look on her face when she finally brings her eyes to meet him makes him sure that his acceptance is the last thing she expects. 

Her kitchen is much more welcoming than his, bright and colorful with the fitting smell of chicken soup wafting from it. "Grilled cheese alright?" she asks, moving past him towards the fridge after gesturing for him to take a seat at the table. 

"Is it ever  _ not _ ?" 

The twinkling laugh she lets out actually seems to brighten the kitchen even further, which he would not have thought possible. 

"I knew I liked you for a reason." 

If the words affect her nearly as much as they do him, she hides it well, moving daintily through the kitchen to gather the rest of the supplies for the sandwiches. He is thankful for the moment of silence that passes between them, noticing for the first time the soft music coming from a small speaker on top of the fridge — he half-recognizes the song, he thinks from  _ Harry Potter _ ? — as he regains his composure, settles the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

"What made you start playing music?" 

And just like that, the pounding comes back. It's an innocent question, one that he gets asked a lot, and one he usually brushes over with a mention of his mother and her affinity for the piano. But, in the welcoming warmth of Emma Swan’s kitchen, he finds himself wanting to tell her everything, wanting to tell the whole story for the first time in a very long time, all the broken bottles and broken promises and broken wrists, the happy songs and the sad songs and one too many damn funeral marches, the drunken spat with the drunken man that almost made him lose his hand, and the life of sobriety that he swore himself into, exchanging his hatred for one parent with his love for another. 

And then he hears the words coming from his mouth, a poisonous story uninvited into this space, into this wonderful woman's life, but it becomes the edited and abridged version as quickly as he can save it: "My father wasn't the nicest man, though he treated my mum the worst of all of us, and in order to find some semblance of peace in the world, she taught herself how to play the piano. And she taught me, too. Tried to teach Liam, but he was never very good at it. So it became a stress relief for me, and I just kept finding new instruments and learning how to play those to keep myself from spiraling, and when it came time for me to figure out my place in the world, music was the obvious answer." 

She hums from her place at the stove, slowly stirring the small pot of soup with a wooden spoon. The movement of her nodding head is small, almost enough that Killian wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching her so intently. Somehow, he can tell that she wants to say something, maybe has a story like his own that she’s trying to piece together into a semblance of something normal, and he doesn’t push her. 

“I get that,” she says finally, still not turning her attention away from the stove. He doesn’t mind; he’s not sure that he’s ready for that level of intimacy, for looking at each other while sharing their backstories — quite the jump from the casual neighborly hello’s and short conversations they have shared by this point. “That’s why I run, even though sometimes it makes me want to die. It was the only time I had alone when I was in—younger, and it’s still the only time I can do something and not be drowning in my own thoughts the whole time.” 

He wonders about her slip of the tongue, the eloquent way she caught herself — and the way she straightened her back slightly as she corrected herself. 

But the last thing he wants is for her to question anything that he said, so he’s certainly not going to say anything, only watch her as she reaches into a cabinet to pull out two bowls, pouring some soup in each of them. 

“That’s how I am with the piano. When I sit down in front of it, it’s like my whole brain shuts down and there’s nothing except the music. My mum told me she was the same way when I got a bit older, and it explained why I would wake up in the middle of the night sometimes and hear her downstairs on the old upright the church donated to us. And Liam says the same thing about being behind the wheel of anything.” 

When she finally turns towards him, a bowl of soup in each hand and a smile on her face, he knows that he has finally found someone to understand. 

And he could not be more ecstatic that it is Emma Swan. 


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up to a message from Tink Greene on an October Thursday morning is one of the last things he expected, not having spoken to her besides the friendly neighborhood hellos since he broke off their dalliance the previous spring. 

The contents of the message are even more of a surprise: 

**_I've been hearing Henry Swan play in one of the practice rooms, and I think he would make a great addition to our student showcase for the Winter concert. He told me you've been teaching him, which explains a lot. Do you think you and he could work together on something by the beginning of December for him to play?_ **

Of course, the first thing he wants to do is share the news with Emma. He should probably shower first. And maybe actually answer Tink. 

**_I think that’s a grand idea. Henry has shown more growth than some of my adult students. Could you get me a song in the next week or so?_ **

Her response comes rather quickly, given the original message was from two hours before, but he imagines there’s not much for the elementary music teacher to do all day.  **_I’m thinking either First Noel or Hark the Herald Angels. It depends on which the recorder students are better at. He also may play it with a beginner violin student, Violet, who’s doing exceptionally well. I think he knows her._ **

He wonders if this is the same Violet from his soccer team, the one the boy has brought up a few times in conversation — but Tink doesn’t need to know that. Hell, he probably shouldn’t even know that, though he’s thankful that Henry trusts him enough to update him on his life during their lessons or some of the nights Killian finds himself staying for dinner. 

But he still needs a response.  **_Thanks again for those recorder students, by the way. I turned down a whole dozen of them within the first two weeks of school, the infernal instrument._ **

When Tink only responds with a few emojis — he tosses his phone back on the bed and pulls himself up, wondering if he is too late to meet Emma for her morning run. 

So he  _ texts _ her. Because that’s something they’re doing now, after her inviting him to some of Henry’s games and his joining them for dinner most nights after Henry’s lessons. It wouldn’t even be the first time she has allowed him to join her on her morning run, invited him into her place of safety and security. 

(He would like to think of himself as a relatively fit human, but even he will admit that three miles, Emma’s regular distance, is a little much for him to start with, though he has been working on it more and more.) 

**_Is it too late for me to join in on the day’s physical activities?_ **

Even he is surprised by the pounding of his heart in his chest as he rummages through his drawers to try to find his athletic shorts, waiting for her answer, hoping for a positive. 

The soft  _ ding _ of her response almost causes him to jump out of his skin.  **_Just getting ready to go, actually. I’ll meet you outside?_ **

**_Perfect_ ** , is all he needs to say, splashing some cold water in his face as he stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t even realize the strong grip he has on the edge of the sink until he lets go to reach for his toothbrush. 

“Christ, Killian,” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head as he runs his toothbrush under the water.  _ It’s only a run. _

But his nerves don’t disappear. If anything, they only grow exponentially, and by the time he meets her on the sidewalk outside her house, he is almost shaking from the adrenaline. 

Good thing they’re going for a run, exerting this pent-up energy. He may even be able to keep up with her the whole time. 

He spends the first block trying to figure out how to bring up his exciting news. And the second. But when she starts to slow down, asks him how his week has gone, he can’t keep it in any longer. 

“Henry’s music teacher asked me this morning if I thought he should perform in the winter showcase.” 

He can sense her excitement almost immediately, even before she slows to a stop, wiping the smooth sheen of sweat off her forehead with the bottom of her t-shirt before turning to him, the smile on her face making the physical exertion worth it. “And?”

“Of course I agreed. I know I’ve told you before, love, but your son is a very talented musician.” 

She is still for a moment, looking somewhere over his shoulder, before she nods, gesturing for them to continue. “So, what, would it be a solo? Or would he be playing something with you?” 

“Actually, Tink mentioned asking one of the girls in his class to play with him. A violinist, I think.” 

“I wonder if it’s the same girl from his soccer team. He told me they met in orchestra, and I think that’s what she plays.”

“Violet, right? That’s what Tink said”

“Yeah, I think so. He’s got a bit of a crush, if you ask me, but don’t say anything to him about it.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, love.” 

“That’s so exciting, though. The kid deserves some excitement, with all the shit his dad is putting him through.”

At first, Killian isn’t sure that Emma even meant to say it, if they’re at that point in their friendship where she shares things like this with him. 

“You know he’s trying to move away? Something about his dad giving him a job in the city, a corner highrise apartment, a position as a big shot in his company, when Neal can’t even manage to get his child support in on time every month.” 

Now he really doesn’t know what to say — but she continues anyway. 

“I try not to say anything bad about him around Henry, but my god, he just makes it so fucking difficult.” 

Killian can’t help the chuckle that pushes through his lips. “I would assume my mum would have said the same about my father, if she ever had the chance.” 

A moment too late, he realizes that it’s only the second time he’s mentioned his father, the only other being the first time they really talked when they shared lunch in her kitchen. 

She doesn’t answer. He counts the time ticking away by their footsteps on the pavement, by the pounding of his heart in his chest. 

She says nothing. They go almost a full block, slowing only to make sure they’re safe to cross the street. 

He doesn’t know what he did. He doesn’t know what to do. So he just focuses on the pounding of his shoes against the pavement.  _ Left, right, left, right _ . 

“Sorry, I…” she says finally, the words going nowhere, but he feels the warmth of her fingers around his wrist, pulling him to a stop. “Can we go get lunch? Maybe that little place on Main Street? I know that’s not our regular route, it’s a little far out of the way, but—” 

“Sure, love,” he says, not even needing to hear the rest of what she’s trying to say. Whatever it is, he will give her the time she needs to tell him — but there are more appropriate places for these sorts of conversations than on the sidewalk. 

She asks the waitress for a table in the back, further away from the door and the line of regulars sitting at the bar, spending what feels like hours looking over the menu before the waitress returns with their drinks and to take their order. All she orders is a bowl of soup, Killian strangely in the mood for one of their salads, but the silence between them only returns when the waitress leaves their table. 

Killian doesn’t mind, really. She decided that she wanted to tell him something, unlock some of the secrets of her past, which is more than he could have asked for. 

“I was, uh, found outside an orphanage when I was just a few days old.” 

Okay, it’s certainly not what he expected. It’s far more personal than he expected — but she’s telling him, and that’s the important part. 

“I have no idea who my parents are, anything about my family, only that they wanted to name me Emma.” 

Pausing, she takes a deep breath. A sip of her water. Her eyes don’t leave the spot on the table that they’re glued to. 

He doesn’t mind. 

“I was in and out of fosters for most of my childhood, and that’s how I met David. His mother was my last-ditch effort when I was seventeen, and if she didn’t work, I was going to be on my own. But, thankfully, she was an angel on this earth, and I spent a good few years with her, even after I aged out and as I went to college. I still think that’s why I kept coming back to Storybrooke, because it was the only place that felt like home, especially after everything that happened with Neal, except now he wants to leave Henry even more, move hours away to the city and see his own son even less than he does now.” 

Still, Killian stays silent. If he’s honest with himself, he really doesn’t know what to say in the first place, and he gets the feeling that there aren’t very many people who just let Emma talk. 

He will gladly be the one as often as she gives him the opportunity. 

“Does Henry know that he’s trying to leave yet?” 

She scoffs, looking up at him for a moment. Just a moment. 

“I told him he had to be the one to tell Henry, to answer all of his questions. That he wasn’t allowed to just up and leave. But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to do it anyway.” 

“I know it might not be want you want to hear, love, but sometimes it’s better for the parent to just up and leave if that’s what they need to do. He’ll still have to get you child support, no matter where he is.” 

“Are you speaking from experience?” 

He doesn’t even know how to read her voice. She doesn’t sound upset, per say, but there’s definitely something much deeper than just curiosity. 

“It’s just what my mother used to say, that we’d probably be better off without him than with him. But I can only hope that Neal is nowhere near the terror that Brennan Jones was.” 

She nods, the very corner of her lips ticking up for just a moment. Says nothing. 

And then it hits him: “Though, I suppose having a terrible dad around is something compared to having no one, no matter how much you may wish he wasn’t there.” 

“Jackpot,” she mumbles. “But as hard as it is to admit, Neal really isn’t a terrible person. He can even be a good dad, when he tries to be, and Henry really looks up to him, which I don’t think he realizes. I just don’t understand how he can choose a job over his own son.” 

“Granted, I don’t have the pleasure of offspring yet, but I would like to believe that I would feel the same as you do.” 

_ Finally,  _ she smiles. Actually makes eye contact with him. Warms his heart a few degrees. Just as the waitress brings their food. 

  
  


Henry practically perfects the song — The First Noel — before Thanksgiving break, a whole three weeks before the concert. Killian even reaches out to Violet’s parents to offer to have them practice together in his studio instead of after hours at the school — or at either of their houses, which is a move that both Emma and Violet’s parents appreciate. 

(Plus, with Henry taking the lead on their rehearsals, it gives him more time to sit in the corner of the studio, talking with Emma.) 

They’ve built up a fine friendship since the first day of school, adding more weekly dinners as a trio, with Killian even joining Emma’s gym to work out with her with the weather getting colder. 

Killian would even go so far as to say Emma and her lad have become a regular part of her life, though he still didn’t expect the day when she asked him out, sitting across the table from her brother and next to her at the Thanksgiving dinner table. 

(What was different about this time? He had been to dinners with them, had spent time alone with Emma, but there was something about  _ this _ that was different. He would be willing to bet it was the setting, the pressure of the situation.) 

“So, Henry, your mom told me about your solo in the winter concert!” Mary Margaret says excitedly, trying to find a subject that Henry can take part in, since most of Emma and David’s conversation has centered around work. 

Killian turns to the boy, seated at the far end of the table, just in time to watch his face light up in a smile. “Technically, it’s a duet, me and this one girl in my class, Violet —” 

“The one from your soccer team? With the purple streaks in her hair?” David asks, the rest of the table watching Henry’s face turn bright red. 

"Oh!" Mary Margaret practically squeals, which makes every eye at the table turn towards her, which Killian is sure Henry is thankful for — until she continues. “Do you have a crush on her?” 

Henry sighs, his eyes falling back to his plate as his cheeks continue to turn as red as his shirt. Instead of answering Mary Margaret’s question, he says, “You know, I never understood why that’s what they call it.” His voice is small, incredibly embarrassed, as he swirls his fork around his pile of mashed potatoes. “Why is it a  _ crush _ ?” 

Emma laughs, gently setting her hand on her son’s shoulder. “Aw, come on, you don’t have to embarrass him,” she jokes. 

“Well, then,” David says, setting his fork down on his plate so he can cross his arms across his chest. “Should we talk about your little crush instead?” 

“David!” both Mary Margaret and Emma say at the same time, and Killian can’t keep the heat from rushing to his face. 

_ Why are you embarrassed, you idiot?  _ he asks himself, trying his best to keep his thoughts off his face.  _ They’re not even talking about you.  _

_ Unless… they are.  _

He almost doesn’t allow himself to even think it. Because it’s  _ insane _ to even assume it. 

And then Emma rolls her eyes. 

Looks at him. 

Pulls her bottom lip up between her teeth. 

Blushes deeper. 

_ Shit. Shit, shit, shit.  _

He tries to act like he missed her look, turns his attention down to his plate of food, but he’s sure it doesn’t work. 

“Why can we bring up Henry’s and embarrass the poor boy, but I can’t do the same to my sister?” David asks, a wide grin spread across his face. Without even meaning to, Killian’s gaze rises, meeting David’s from across the table. 

David winks. 

_ Shit.  _

“You’re at least going to his concert together, right?” David asks, the same smirk still covering his features. 

“I mean, we hadn’t really discussed it, but—” Emma starts, but Henry cuts her off: 

“You mean, like a date?”

“No,” both Killian and Emma try at the same time, but it doesn’t work. 

Mary Margaret’s poker face falters, turning into a grin that seems to brighten her already-shining aura. David somehow looks even more smug, though Killian wouldn’t have thought it possible. 

And Emma, whose gaze Killian is very purposefully avoiding, is turning redder by the moment. 

He’s sure he is, too. 

(Because he desperately wants it to be a date.) 

  
  


The next three weeks pass in a bit of a blur, between the holiday drunks that Emma has to deal with at the station and the last-minute lessons before recitals and concerts. It feels like the blink of an eye between their conversation at Mary Margaret and David’s thanksgiving dinner and Killian knocking on the door of the Swan’s house, making sure his light blue shirt is tucked into his dark jeans as he waits for someone to let him in. The waistcoat may have been a little more than necessary for an elementary school concert, sure, but there was talk before of Neal taking Henry and some of his friends for ice cream, giving Emma and Killian a chance to go out for dinner together. 

Maybe even like a  _ date _ , he allows himself to think. 

It’s Emma that opens the door, and when he sees the same red dress that he remembers from last year’s concert, he’s glad he decided to go with the waistcoat — he would have been undoubtedly under-dressed without it. 

Because,  _ damn _ is she perfect, her golden hair falling softly over her shoulders and her lips a shade of red almost as vibrant as her dress. He tries his best to hide it, but his breath gets trapped in his chest.

She smiles. “Hey.” 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, Killian, speak _ . He clears his throat. “Uh, hi. Is the lad almost ready?” 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Henry yells from just out of Killian’s sight, most likely from around the corner in the living room. 

“How are you feeling, Henry?” Killian asks just as he comes around the corner, the bowtie of his suit unbuttoned but otherwise looking incredibly dapper from his gelled-back hair to the tips of his polished dress shoes. 

He shrugs. “A little nervous, I guess, but that’s normal, right?” 

Killian smiles. “Aye. Completely normal. But I know you’re going to be exceptional.” 

At this, Henry smiles, slipping past Killian and out the front door. “Thanks. Now let’s go!” 

Emma fiddles with her nails when she’s nervous. This is something Killian learns very quickly, sitting beside her in one of the front rows of the auditorium, especially after having noticed it in the car on the way here. It doesn’t distract him, per se; instead, it gives him something to focus on instead of his own nerves, the shaking of his leg, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“He’s going to do great,” Mary Margaret says from the other side of Emma, probably sensing her nervousness the same way. 

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Emma says, never taking her eyes off of the index finger she is focused on. “I just—” she lets out her breath through pursed lips, turning to look over her shoulder to where Neal is sitting at the end of the row behind them. Killian follows her gaze there, only to watch his attention turn from the cell phone in his hand to the watch on his wrist. “He wants to tell Henry tonight, that he’s accepted his father’s job offer. He leaves at the end of the month, but I told him he wasn’t allowed to ruin Henry’s concert by telling him before it. I can’t really even argue with it, he at least listened to what I told him.” 

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret mutters, setting one of her hands on top of Emma’s, which halts her ability to pick at the skin around her index finger. 

“I’ve always been surprised he stuck around this long in the first place,” David— helpfully— adds, arms crossed over his chest. 

Killian can  _ feel _ the daggers that Mary Margaret shoots at her husband when she turns to him. 

Emma manages to let out a single, breathy laugh, shaking her head. “You’re right, though, David. I never expected him to stay around after we broke up, so the fact that he’s waited this long is a bit of a miracle.” 

“That’s not going to make it any easier for Henry, though,” Mary Margaret comments. 

Emma just shrugs, but when she goes to respond, the house lights quickly dim to black, the spotlight shining on Belle French, the school librarian and interim principal, standing at the podium. In moments, the entire room is hushed. 

“Thank you all for coming out tonight,” she says, the gooseneck mic only catching the last few words, the auditorium humming with low feedback. “As you all know, we here in Storybrooke love to do all we can to ensure students have the opportunities to practice the arts they choose, and music is at the core of this. Every year, we are proud to hold this showcase for our elementary students, giving them the opportunity to show off their talents to the community, as well as our elementary band and orchestra groups, who have all been practicing regularly since at least the beginning of the year. To open our concert for tonight, we have the elementary orchestra group, led by our music teacher, Miss Tink Greene.” 

The auditorium fills with applause as the spotlight fades away and the curtains open to reveal a stage full of musicians, smiling out at their families and friends in the audience. When Emma turns her attention to Killian out of the corner of her eye, the smile spread across his face conjures one of her own. He looks so proud, with many of the students on the stage students of his own. 

Halfway through the second song, Mary Margaret leans towards Emma, setting her hand on her arm. “I always forget just how awful elementary orchestra concerts are,” she whispers. 

Emma lets out a light laugh, nodding. “Like, I’m glad Henry found something he enjoys doing, don’t get me wrong, but listening to him play a botched song on a piano and listening to a bunch of them play half-tuned violins are two different worlds.” 

“Swan,” Killian whispers, his eyes never leaving the stage, even as he reaches over to set his hand on her arm. “Shush.” 

Even as she rolls her eyes, Emma can’t help but smile at him. But she also can’t help herself from leaning closer to Mary Margaret and whispering, “Killian wants us to stop talking.” 

He doesn’t even try to hide his sigh, but he doesn’t move to respond to her. 

He leaves his hand on her arm, though. 

Neither of them seem to care. Neither of them make a move. 

The second song comes to an end, and they quickly begin the third — the final song, Emma is relieved to hear. 

They’re followed by a blonde girl in a bright red shirt and black slacks, who plays “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” on her cello; a small group of students introduced as the “elementary jazz band” who play a somewhat-recognizable jazzy rendition of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”; and a trio that plays “I Saw Three Ships” in a round on their flute, clarinet, and violin. 

Killian, of course, knows many of them, whispering things like, “Her mother tried to ask me out during one of our lessons,” and “They have the cutest little dog that really likes to lick my legs when they bring it with to pick him up,” when they are introduced. 

(Emma wonders what Killian would say about her if he were whispering to someone else.) 

And then next up is Henry. When the curtain opens, she doesn’t realize that she has changed her grip to holding Killian’s hand in her own — or, at least, one of them moved to hold the hand of the other — until she feels the way he straightens his shoulders, sucks in a breath between his teeth. But when she turns to him, taking her eyes away from her son, getting ready to perform, for just a moment, he meets her eyes. 

Smiles. 

_ Winks _ . 

(The bastard.) 

And turns back to the stage. 

She’s glad they’re in a darkened auditorium, because she feels the way her face warms at the realization, hopes that Mary Margaret can’t hear the pounding in her chest that is only silenced when Henry starts to play, Violet playing along with him. 

It’s much better than the sound of the full orchestra, Emma notices almost immediately, or any of the other groups that have played. It at least doesn’t sound like a bunch of screaming, dying animals. 

Just sitting there watching him, she is overwhelmed by a sense of pride, something that washes over her like a wave as his fingers move perfectly across the piano keys. (Sure, it might not be  _ completely  _ perfect, maybe a handful of notes a little off between the two of them, but Emma doesn’t care.) 

Killian turns to her, just slightly, if only because he knows just how bright the smile spread across her face has to be. 

(He’s right.) 

It warms him. It makes his heart pound in his chest, just how happy her happiness makes him. Of course, that’s not the point of taking on dedicated students like Henry, but if one of the perks of being able to share the joy of music with the lad is spending time with (falling absolutely head over heels for) his mother, he will certainly be the last to complain. 

But, in looking over at her, he also happens to glance over her shoulder, where Neal is still sitting at the end of the aisle behind them. 

Not even looking at the stage, his cell phone still in his hand. 

Over the shoulders of Emma and Mary Margaret, David makes eye contact with him, raising one of his eyebrows in question, which Killian only responds to by nodding in Neal’s direction. David turns around, and Killian can tell by the rise and fall of his shoulders that he sighs. When he turns towards Killian again, he rolls his eyes. 

The last group to play is the elementary band, who proves to be much easier on the ears than the orchestra. It’s not very large, just a dozen or so students spread across the three rows of chairs, with three percussionists standing in front of various instruments at the back of the stage. 

And then, after the first song, out come the recorders. 

It appears Emma spoke (thought?) too soon, trying her best not to wince through their rendition of “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas,” thankfully aided by some of the other band members to make it somewhat less terrible — but by a very small margin. 

(Killian, however, does not have the same self-control, and every scrunch of his face is paired with the tightening of his hand, which still happens to be wrapped around Emma’s — though neither of them are complaining.) 

  
  


The first words out of Neal’s mouth, while everyone else praises his performance, are, “You ready to get out of here, kid?” 

The question is met with a glare from the rest of the group, all except Henry who just looks confused. 

“Aren’t we taking some of my friends? We have to wait for them.” 

Neal sighs, looking at his watch. “Well, can you rally them together? I have to be up early tomorrow so I don’t want to be out too late.” 

“If you want us to, David and I would be willing to take Henry instead,” Mary Margaret says, her grip on David’s hand tightening to stop him from reacting. 

Henry doesn’t answer, just turns his attention up at Neal, as if waiting to see how he responds. 

He grinds his teeth together. “No, of course I’ll take him, I just — it’s been a long week and I’m a little exhausted.” 

“I’m gonna go find Avery and Violet,” Henry says, obviously a little let down by Neal’s response, before walking away from the group — and, now that he’s gone, Emma allows herself to finally respond to him. 

“I can’t believe you!” 

Neal just rolls his eyes. Killian feels his jaw tighten, and David crosses his arms across his chest. 

“God, Emma, just stop overreacting. You all knew this was going to happen someday, even Henry.” 

“That doesn’t mean you have to tell him today. He just had his first performance, his first solo, and all he wants from you is for you to be proud of him, not to hear that you’re moving away.” 

“Listen, you told me I had to wait until after the concert. The concert is over.” 

“You know damn well this isn’t what I meant!” Emma moves to lunge towards him, but Killian catches her arm, holding her back. 

“Not here, love,” he whispers. For a moment, Emma’s eyes are wide with anger, but when they meet his, they soften, and she nods. 

Neal scoffs. “You want to call me out for being inappropriate, yet here you are, dating Henry’s music teacher.” 

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes. 

_ We’re not dating _ . Killian feels the words on the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back — this is neither the time nor the place, and besides—

“That’s none of your damn business, first of all,” Emma bites. "I will kiss and date and sleep with whoever the hell I want to, you have no say in it anymore." 

"You  _ slept  _ with him?!" 

"Again, it's none of your business whether I did or not, Neal. That's the point. God, I don’t have the patience to deal with you right now. Just make sure Henry gets to soccer practice on time tomorrow, please.”

“Now you’re going to tell me how to be his dad? Like I haven’t been doing it for ten years?” 

Killian has a feeling that if his hand weren’t still wrapped around Emma’s wrist, she would have lunged again. 

“Come on, Emma, let’s go,” David says, stepping between them. “He’s not worth it,” he whispers. 

Still, Emma doesn’t move. 

Killian tugs on her hand. “Come on, love.” 

She takes a breath, apparent by the rise and fall of her shoulders, before she nods, finally turning back to face him. 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

They find Henry in the music room behind the auditorium, gathering his belongings. “Hey, kid,” Emma calls, walking towards him. “We’re gonna head out, okay?” 

He whips around, stopping in the middle of his conversation with Avery. “Okay!” He rushes across the music room to wrap his arms around Emma’s middle. “Thanks again for coming!” 

“Of course we came, lad,” Killian says, mussing his hair with a smile. 

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mary Margaret chirps from behind them. 

“But you have fun with your dad, alright?” Emma says. “Want me to take your dress shoes home?” 

“I don’t want to stay at dad’s tonight, I want to come home with you.” 

“Henry, come on, we talked about this already. Your dad asked for you to stay there tonight even though it’s not his night, and you have practice in the morning anyway. Please?” 

Suddenly, his eyes light up. “Why? Are you two going on a date?” 

David scoffs. Mary Margaret laughs, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. Killian is useless against the drop of his jaw. But it’s Emma’s answer that Henry laughs at: “What? No, come on, we’re—we’re—” she stutters. 

Henry puts his hands on his hips, his eyebrows high on his forehead. Killian recognizes the look immediately; he’s gotten the exact look from Emma before, on quite a few occasions. 

“I can assure you, lad, I’m just taking your mother home.” 

This time, it’s David who laughs, just a single bark — but it’s all Killian needs to really  _ hear _ what he has just said, and he quickly feels as heat rises to the tips of his ears. 

But Henry doesn’t hear it that way, thankfully, and instead flashes a large smile at them. “Then you can just take me home, too.” 

“Henry, please,” Emma says, crossing her arms over her chest. Henry’s smile disappears, and he nods even as his gaze falls to the ground. 

“Okay, mom.” 

He goes to turn away from them, but Emma reaches out to put her arm on his shoulder. “Hey,” she whispers, waiting for him to look back up at her before she smiles. ‘C’mere,” she whispers, leaning down as she holds her arms out to him. 

Henry complies, even managing to crack a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow after practice, alright?”

“You’ll pick me up?” 

“Sure. I’ll be there.” 

“Thanks, mom.” 

After quickly hugging Mary Margaret and high-fiving David and Killian, the four of them make their way out of the building to their cars. 

“So,  _ are  _ you guys going on a date?” The question practically explodes out of Mary Margaret, and David is useless against the smile that spreads across his face. 

“No,” Emma says, but Killian takes a chance and shrugs. 

“What do you say, Swan? Want to get something to eat?”

No one looks more surprised by this turn of events than Emma herself. Killian’s glad they’re out from under the harsh phosphorescence of the school lights so the redness of his face is (hopefully) less obvious. 

David’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “Do I have to give you guys the  _ talk _ ?” 

Killian doesn’t know how to respond, truthfully; instead, Emma hits his arm with the back of her hand. “Oh my god, David.” 

Mary Margaret giggles — honest-to-God  _ giggles.  _

“We’re leaving now,” Emma says, and Killian certainly doesn’t argue. 

“So, do you want to eat, or not?” Killian asks, finally breaking the silence in the car as they pull out of the parking lot. 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Emma mumbles, failing to hide the way she fiddles with her nails. “Wherever you want to go.” 

He smiles. “I know just the place.” 

  
  


Much to Emma’s surprise, he takes them home. To his house, more specifically, though for a moment she fears that he will drop her off at her front door and disappear forever. Instead, he holds open his front door for her, as nervous as she is. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, helping her shrug out of her coat, which he then drapes over the back of a dining room chair. “Water? Wine? I probably have some whiskey somewhere around here, if you’re looking for something harder.” 

Emma smiles, finding his obvious nerves charming. “Wine would be great.” 

He hums, pulling a bottle of white out of the fridge. Of course, with the way his nerves have been acting up, he’s surprised he hasn’t already started rambling, so he’s not surprised when he opens his mouth and is unable to stop words from falling from his lips. “Liam always told me that the best way to impress a lady is to cook for her, but I was probably not supposed to divulge that information on a first date.” He hands her the glass of wine, then pours one for himself. “I was half-hoping this is where we ended up, you know. That’s why I prepared a little bit, why I thawed this piece of salmon and made sure I had what I needed for my mother’s favorite pasta recipe.” Quickly, he turns to face her, unable to stop his hand from scratching the spot behind his ear. “I hope that’s okay, now that I’m thinking about it, I never even asked—” 

Emma holds her hand out, resting it against his hand on the counter. “Killian,” she says softly, and between that and her smile, he snaps his mouth shut. “Whatever you have planned, I’m sure it will be perfect.” 

He wants to dive across the kitchen counter and kiss her right there, the salmon be damned. But that’s not what he does, holding himself back. Instead, he just smiles at her. 

“You have too much faith in me, love,” he says, forcing himself to move to begin readying dinner. 

“Maybe I’ve just gotten to know you enough to be sure that I can trust you.” 

_ God, I love this woman _ , he thinks to himself, only allowing himself to pause for a moment as the realization hits him, knowing that more will draw her attention for sure. And if he called her out, asked what he was thinking about, he’s not sure he would be able to stop himself from telling her. 

Because it’s true, he realizes — there’s no use hiding from it anymore. It’s  _ true _ that he has fallen absolutely in love with Emma Swan, and there’s no going back now. 

But the silence of the kitchen — of the whole house — gets to him before the oven is even preheated, and he has to find something to talk about before he absolutely loses his mind. 

“Your lad did a great job tonight, you know,” he says, daring to glance at her over his shoulder, if only to catch the smile that he knows is on her face. 

“Well, he had an incredible teacher,” she says. 

“That may be true, love, but he had real talent when he started.” 

“Which really is a surprise.” Emma tells him, not for the first time. “I know neither Neal or I have any musical ability, or Neal’s dad. Mary Margaret used to play the flute, but she’s not actually family, and probably hasn’t picked one up since college.” 

“I know you never knew them, but maybe it’s from one of your parents.” This time, when he glances over his shoulder, she has her thumbnail between her front teeth, so he adds, “Or maybe it’s just him. It’s not unheard of.” 

She attempts to smile, but it doesn’t stick. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he turns back to the counter, adding the last few sprigs of rosemary to the pan with the salmon before sticking it in the oven. 

“That’ll take a little while longer than the pasta, so I’m going to wait a bit before I start that,” he starts, but when he turns back to her, she’s gone. 

_ Shit.  _

“Okay,” she calls from the living room, which slows the terrified pounding of his heart almost immediately. Even after months of friendship with Emma Swan, he still somehow thought she would have walked out on him. 

“So we, uh, have a little bit of time,” he says, finding his own glass of wine before following her voice into the living room. Much to his surprise, she’s sitting on the piano bench, her long, thin fingers moving gently across the keys, but not making a sound. 

“You know,” she says, turning towards him as he fills the space between them. “I do know how to play one thing on the piano.” With a shy smile, she moves over on the bench to give him room to sit with her, patting it gently when he doesn’t move to join her. 

But he’s useless against her, and can fight it no longer, so he does, trying to focus on something other than the warmth of her leg pressed against his. “Oh yeah? What is that?” 

He's afraid to hear the answer, knows what she's about to play down deep in his soul, but he still cringes when he hears the first few notes: “Heart and Soul.” 

"Anything but that, love. Literally anything."

  
  


“I don’t know about you, Killian Jones,” Emma says, letting him slip her jacket back over her arms before he leads her to the door. “But I don’t think I’ve ever had a  _ better _ first date.” Even in the low light of the entryway, Killian knows that Emma can see the blush rising to his cheeks. “And I know I said it before, but that pasta was incredible. Really, one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.” 

“Well, thank you, Swan,” he says, ducking his head to avoid her bright eyes. “I’m glad you think so. Both about the pasta and the date.” 

“I may even let you walk me home.” 

He’s at a loss for words — and even questions his own ability to speak when she follows up by running her tongue across her bottom lip. 

“It would be my pleasure.” 

“You’re a true gentleman, Killian Jones.” 

“Always.” He even feels brave enough to wink at her, holding open the front door to let her through. 

Their walk across the street is silent, save the light chuckle Killian allows when Emma threads her arm through his. 

“This is my stop,” she says, turning to face him on her front porch. But instead of moving to open the door, she reaches out to take one of his hands in hers. Then the other. 

“Yeah, I should, uh, let you get home,” he says, realizing that it is, in fact, the very last thing he wants to do. 

She looks up at him, her green eyes bright in the front lights. “Yeah,” she whispers, barely audible. Swipes her tongue across her bottom lip again. And then leans forward, letting go of one of his hands only to wrap hers around his neck, and presses her lips against his. It’s soft, it’s gentle, it’s — 

Perfect. Everything he imagined kissing Emma Swan would be. 

And that’s why he loses himself in it, in her, for just a moment, living for the swipe of her tongue against his, before backing away. She takes a deep breath before opening her eyes, a soft smile spread across her lips. 

“I don’t usually do this on a first date, love,” he whispers, leaning closer to her so he can rest his forehead against hers. 

“Me neither,” she says back, her smile growing. “So take me out again tomorrow night and we can do it again.” 

“Deal.” 

She kisses him again, a single peck on the lips, and turns away. 

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two will be posted as soon as I finish it.


End file.
